


harry styles doesn't like the loser (Perfect Symphony)

by coolerpbeans



Category: Fine Line - Harry Styles (Album), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: F/M, Harry Styles - Freeform, harrystyles, i hope you like it merry xmas, yes i kinda failed i hate how cringe i wrote y/n, yes i tried to write a harry styles x y/n fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28223724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolerpbeans/pseuds/coolerpbeans
Summary: Harry Styles is the most popular, most sought for, boy in high school. A transfer student with a British accent, a smile with two dimples, sea-green eyes, and a talent for music; last year he was all to craze for. But, in light of the pandemic, virtual learning breaks down all social hierarchies, all categories of loser and popular, and it brings forth Y/N in a breakout room, all alone with the Harry Styles.And, despite all that she allows, she suffers.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	harry styles doesn't like the loser (Perfect Symphony)

  
  


for my cousin kayla :) merry xmas

[i rlly tried to channel my girl-cringe energy in here, hope you like]

[no this will not be like After]

  
  


_ Please wait for the host to start this meeting _ . 

I eye that loading screen precariously, fingers tapping on my notebook. It’s been three months since I last stepped in school--barely remembered, hardly cherished, and rushed to the end. But this, a loading screen on my dad’s old laptop, has me just as nervous. My phone beside a glass of water vibrates with a text tone. 

Danny.  _ hey, has ur class started yet? _

I text back.  _ no. you? _

_ nope. i almost woke up late.  _ I smile at the text.  _ let’s call afterschool. <3 _

I send back a heart just as the loading screen stops and a dark grey grid-format overtakes my laptop screen. Names load in, the teacher’s wave lags through his bad internet, and my cursor hovers reluctantly over the  _ Video On _ button on the bottom left. Eyeing the classroom before my screen--no back of heads covering the board, or snickering giggles over the shoulder, just faceless boxes and names before a clueless teacher--I skim through familiar names and land on one: Harry E Styles. 

Harry Styles. A noteworthy name at our school (hell, in our entire town). During freshman year, his curly locks and transfer-student accent garnered somewhat of our interest, but during sophomore year, that impression had changed. 

It was the last day of school before winter break, when Harden Scott grappled the Secretary’s microphone during the morning announcements to announce his own event--afterschool, at his house (his parents gone on an early sky trip), and everyone invited. Now, me being me, I didn’t attend such a party (mandatory gingerbread house building), but from what I heard from Danny, Harry Styles arrived, had a couple Red Solo cups, and upon spotting Harden’s Dad’s old guitar over the plasma TV, he serenaded a roomful of captivated, yet drunk, classmates. 

Through some slurred lyrics and burping laughs, Harry’s first public performance went viral on youtube-- _ Local British Boy Sings For the First Time _ . And, coming back to school in January of that school year, he shook such a video off with the casual remark, “What, you guys didn’t know I used to be in a band?”

It was an old band, and therefore old news. But some ex-Music Theory, ex-Choir students took to that news with mild interest, and four random members of an unknown band took everyone by surprise with the prospect of offering Harry a spot. 

And that’s the surface-level description of Harry’s rise to popularity in the school hierarchy. Him and his new band members would practice and perform at a coffee shop afterschool, which would over time flood with fawning girls and  _ the popular chicks _ . All over town, their songs and covers would be boasted about on Youtube and in the news- _ -High School Students of the Band, 2 Direction Now Famous _ . 

“Now that I have gone over the introduction, I will be putting you guys in breakout rooms to introduce yourselves,” the teacher announces, and I jolt out of my skin.  _ Crap. I just missed something. _ “If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll figure this thing out.”

Silent minutes passing by, we wait for an erratic teacher to  _ figure things out _ . Staring at my own black box and white name on the screen, I can only imagine what everyone else is thinking--Tessa Young, the one of the many once-cheerleaders that used to have her own table in the cafeteria with all the other once-cheerleaders, probably scoffing at my own name (recalling that one time I tripped by her table); Rebecca Lee, another once-cheerleader, probably laughing at some message Tessa sends her about my tripping incident; Selena Gane, class president, probably grimacing at the sight of my name (we were paired once for biology, and I had just earned a C on the exam). And they were only just three of the thirty other students familiar with my name through trips, stumbles, failed test scores, and bumps in between heading to the vending machine for chips. Hell, if I could erase my name and leave my presence only a black screen in a grid, I’d be content. 

The teacher, after various head-scratching, manages to send us all out in breakrooms. In Breakroom 7, it’s a big surprise to land in the same group as--”’ello loves. Harry Styles, you may know.”

There’s a pausing second following Harry’s short introduction, casted onto me and the two other people in the group. Who’s to follow the famous dude’s intro next? Then, with a short laugh, “Uh, how about Y/N? Why don’t you go?”

Instinctively, I unmute at the sudden request. Before the silence takes over, I push out: “I-uh, I’m Y/N.” Then, eyeing the two other participants in the group, “Uh, Robbie, why don’t you go?”

I double check that I’m muted again as Robbie spouts his own half-hearted introduction, and the last participant, Sheila, does her own. Halfway through her’s, the teacher informs us that  _ after introducing yourselves you should learn one special thing about each person in your group.  _

Sheila fits her fun fact after her introduction. Harry follows after. Then, with another laugh, “Y/N, why don’t you go?”

  
  


**

  
  


Finishing my other online classes, after a quick trip downstairs--waving hi to my parents out on the porch, giving my sister a fRICKIN UPPERCUT (fix this later lol), and grabbing the cooked lunch off the counter--I set up my phone and called Danny. She answered with an excited squeal, clapping her hands together. “Y/N! Finally!”

“Sorry, my last teacher held us past class time,” I apologize. “So, how were your classes?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, the worst. During second period my wifi started buffering, I kept getting kicked out of the meeting.”

“Ah, sucks.” I catch myself as I’m about to ask her to hang out tomorrow, so she can use my wifi. Danny’s parents are strict about the stay at home, unlike some people. “I’m sure it’ll work itself out tomorrow.”

“Eh, not like I care,” she snorts. “Kick me out of class for all I care.” She giggles. “Anyways, how about you?”

“Oh, well, not as bad as yours,” I begin. “I only had to go into breakout rooms for my first period, so, that’s lucky.” My teachers for History and Math, I guess, haven’t learned that function yet. 

“Ooh, who was with you?” Danny smiles, interest piquing. She shifts around in her seat as I chew down another bite. “Someone cute?”

Now my turn to roll eyes. “It was just Robbie M, uh….Sheila T, and...oh, Harry Styles.”

She gasps. “Oh, Harry Styles?” I groan and she laughs along, carrying a heavily shocked tone, “You’re in a class with  _ Harry Styles _ ?”

“Yeah.”

“And, what, did he call on you or something?”

“Yeah, actually.” Another gasp. I groan again. “Danny, stop. He just asked me to say my name.”

She giggles and clicks her pen. “What? I’m just excited, my best friend is finally socializing!”

“Oh, shut up!”

After a few more laughs, we dive into our homework. Our schedules, thus year, don’t match, and neither do our classes--different teachers, different subjects--so it’s not much help by ourselves. In between writing summaries, calculating problems and jotting down notes, Danny urges for short breaks, during which I share my screen and browse for some videos to watch together. After about an hour, she gasps at the idea of us walking--together. 

Passing my parents in the living room--exchanging afternoon greetings, small questions (How was school, Y/N?), and small answers (fine, Mom)--and my sister at the dining table, I step out of the house, mask on, phone in hand, and smiling down as Danny does the same. She fumbles with plugging in her tangled earbuds, I wave at the neighbors walking their dogs on the other side of the sidewalk, and then, we start on our walks. 

“Okay, where are we walking to?” I ask. “A quick circle?”

“Hmm, how about I go to the place by the house with the red flowers, and you go to the gas stop?” I nod, following those directions. Danny lives further North than me, somewhere high up; meanwhile I live closer to the school and said gas stop. 

It takes a few minutes, me reaching the gas stop faster--the route is pretty straight, only ever turning at the cross walks--and I stop in the parking lot in front of a coffee shop. Danny reaches her destination, walking past the house with the red flowers-- _ Look _ , she says as she passes them,  _ they’re blooming again _ \--and to this end of the neighborhood with a railing overlooking the freeway and the gas stop. 

“Ah, look at that,” she says, camera capturing an orange and red masterpiece, and I turn to face it myself; right in front, dipping into the horizon, a nice sunset. And she laughs, “Turn around.”

I turn around, eyes peering up along the rising houses and climbing hillside. There, by a white railing and red flowers, she waves. I wave back, smile growing. “Nice to see you.”

After a few more pondering moments, watching that sunset and pointing at each other, we head back home. Tomorrow, Danny has to work right after school up until 9 p.m. She rubs her temples, wondering how she’ll finish homework without any help at that late of night. And I offer, “Hey. I’ll stay up with you. We’ll figure it all out together.”

“Thanks,” she smiles just as she’s locking the door behind her, back in her house. Mine is just a few minutes away. “Ah, my mom cooked dinner. Gotta go.” And, taking her mask off, she grins. “Say hi to Harry Styles for me tomorrow.”

  
  


**

The first week of classes continue as expected--syllabuses (and typed signatures), icebreakers, intro quizzes, and  _ Get to Know Me _ projects. But that’s not the week I’m talking about. 

It’s  _ this  _ week--Wednesday, 7:50 AM, beginning the first five minutes of class with my teacher’s exciting remarks about a  _ partner project!  _ Just as I would sit in dread in a physical classroom, looking for friendly classmates with avid eyes, I sat at my desk and scrolled through the Participants list frantically. Tessa Young-- _ no _ . Rebecca Lee-- _ also no _ . Following on, more  _ no’ _ s, a few  _ yes _ ’s, a couple  _ maybe _ ’s. Teacher shares his screen and a typed up word document of the project--in much, much shorter words, we are to read an excerpt from an unknown writer, analyze the text, and decide on what person the author was and what persona and perspective they adopted in that text. 

“...the project is due on Monday,” teacher continues, reading the last line of his document. “The link to the text is posted in our classroom. I will give you the rest of class time to read the text with your partners.”

Returning back to the dark-grey grid screen, Teacher hums through mouse clicks and keyboard clacks, and I wait timidly for the first victim of the school year to be partnered with me.  _ Oh great, this girl _ , I imagine they’ll think of me. A big plus from virtual learning, I guess, is that silence through the screen is less painful than silence in person. Then, with another loud click, Teacher says, “There! Go into your breakout rooms now.”

I click on the breakout rooms and, for the first few seconds, stare at my own name on the screen. Then--surprisingly, unexpected, (nearly) unwanted:  _ Harry E Styles _ . Instinctively, my hand twitches towards my phone.  _ Holy crap _ . 

Harry unmutes first. Then, nervously, I follow. “Hello,” he greets. “Y/N, nice to see you again.”

I swallow. “Y-yeah. Nice to see you too.”

Tessa, I was prepared for. Rebecca, more so. Any other rude  _ Mean Girl _ who’ll mute herself and turn off her camera and text her friends in silence; any other inconvenienced boy who’ll answer my questions of  _ what did you think of the story _ with shrugs and silence and  _ i don’t know _ s; any other student who’ll see my name and roll their eyes and bite back a sigh in front of my eyes. But Harry Styles--I didn’t know what to expect. 

We agree on spending a few minutes separately to read the story and make our own notes. I jot down mine in my notebook, noting parts in the text for later commentary. I finish in five minutes, dwelling with a sticky note over the objective of the project--find out who the author is. There was no specific historical context, no real geographic site in mind, no worthy name or calling mentioned in the text. Just a story itself. 

In a quick summary: a woman wakes up, fixes her bed, freshens up, and goes downstairs to cook breakfast. Her husband wakes next, eats breakfast, and leaves to work soon after. The woman cleans the table, packs the leftovers, takes out the trash, and walks down the street to meet her friend, Cheryl, who has a toddler and a baby. Before lunch, the woman returns home and cooks food for her husband to return to. The husband leaves again after eating, and after cleaning the woman walks to town to buy pie from a bakery. She returns, cooks dinner, and serves the food and pie for her husband. After cleaning the dishes, leaving out a plate of snacks for her husband in the living room as he watches TV, and freshening up in the bathroom, she sleeps. 

“Are you done?” He asks.

“Yeah.” I say. “So, what did you think?”

He mulls over his notes. “Well, it came to me as a short story. I wrote down some of the devices the author used, but...I don’t know, to me, there’s not much that entails who this person is.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I-I guess it lies in the purpose.” Harry voices his agreement. “I mean, the author has the character doing all this stuff for people around them, it could be about...compassion. Caregiving.” He hums. “And uh...help.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can see that,” he agrees. Then he laughs, “Would’ve been nice to get the title of the story.” Then, we see an announcement from the teacher-- _ five minutes left in class. You will not be working with your partner tomorrow, so get their contacts.  _

I bite my lips--worriedly, embarrassingly, awaiting silence in that uncomfortable hesitance to get That One Girl’s number. And, nearly, I cede to it, hovering my cursor over the  _ Mute Mic _ , but then he says, “I guess I should get your number, then?”

My fingertips tighten and wrap around my mechanical pencil. Then, I choke out, attempting a laugh, “Y-yeah, sure.” 

And surprisingly, he laughs too. I give my digits, hearing him scribble them down, and he gives me his, letting me jot it down on the top left header of my notebook. Shortly after, the teacher has us leave our breakout rooms, to conclude the lesson for now and end class with a short goodbye.  _ Again, you won’t be working with your partner tomorrow, and the project is due Monday. _ And in quick succession, I click  _ Leave Meeting  _ before sinking down with a large sigh. 

Immediately, I grab my phone, and click on Danny’s contact. With no context, I send:

_ I just got Harry Styles’ number _ . 

I look back to those digits scrawled in graphite, meandering at the top of my notebook. And of course--no, it’s not  _ fawning. _ It’s not  _ amazement, joy,  _ or whatever emotion that girl in the movie is supposed to feel when she gets a guy’s number. This isn’t it. No, it’s not allowed. It’s just a partner project.

Danny responds immediately:  _ omg! Y/N’s first number! _

There she goes on, praising me for doing the bare minimum and earning a guy’s number in return. And through rushed typing on the screen keyboard, I explain, but she praises on and on. And then I say,  _ class almost starts. wanna call later? _

And she says,  _ no, i got work again. sorry. _

_ no problem.  _ I look at the clock. Five minutes before my second class.  _ luv you. <3 _

  
  


**

  
  


Wednesday, 1:30 pm, just an hour after my classes have ended. In the middle of lunch downstairs, bunched up against my sister on the right and the family dog on the left (he has his own chair); they all comment with assuming  _ hmm _ s and raised eyebrows when my phone dings.  _ It must be Danny _ , I say, but check anyway. 

And my sister, Murph, peeks first. A gasp. “Harry Styles?!”   
  


Mom gasps with her. Dad’s fork drops. Together they stumble, unaware of the day their daughter finally gets a text from a boy, but I hurriedly explain, “We’re in English together. W-we’re doing a group project together.” Still, gasping and stuttering. “The teacher wanted us to share our numbers with each other.”

Bursting out of her seat, Murph exclaims, “You got  _ the  _ Harry Styles’ number?!”   
  


“Harry Styles? I would’ve thought that kid quit school and released an album by now,” Mom comments, laughing nervously and sharing unsure glances with Dad. “And he gave you his number?”

“Should we have a zoom call over dinner?” Dad suggests, though jokingly, as he wipes his fork off. “Maybe you can call him for some free tickets after quarantine.”

“I--stop joking around, it’s just school, and--” I turn around, hearing my Murph rustle in her seat. “Murph! Get off my phone!”

Our hands wrestle over my iPhone 8. I never get the new phones, unlike those popular girls and their rich family inheritance. Murph, with baring teeth, pulls back with the growl, “Give me his number.”

“Both of you calm down!” Mom orders, and without a lift of her finger, we sink back into our seats, phone left on the dinner table. Murph sulks into her side with a grumbling pout, and I cross awms in my own with a roll of my eyes. Typical younger sister--always stealing the spotlight. But this is  _ my  _ story. 

In shaky ease we finish dinner, no words allowed on the prospect of Harry Styles and his exclusive digits. After Dad’s last burp, Mom’s last stern glare, Murph’s last loud gulp of water, and my last bite, we clear the table, soak the dishes, and Dad switches on the TV. Murph gets back to homework, and Mom calls her college friend, our Aunty Fanny, for their daily chit-chat. Upstairs, I finally check the text.

_ Wanna call now? Unless you’re busy. _

Out of habit, I glaze over Danny’s contact.  _ Working, again _ . Honestly, I never quite imagined a situation like this--me, needing her advice, and her, too busy to say. Danny would probably say something like,  _ be confident. You do you.  _ And then I’d tell her what I’ve always said,  _ nobody likes  _ that  _ me.  _

_ You don’t know that. _

I take a breath. And then, fingers moving slow, I type it out.

_ Sure.  _

  
  


He responds in a minute. It’s a meeting code. I fill it out on my laptop, and upon pressing  _ Enter,  _ it presents me with the question,  _ Enter the meeting with your video on? _ The cursor hovers. Harry won’t have his video on, will he? There’s no reason to. Right?

The loading screen goes, and within seconds, the screen shifts to a small box amidst grey and black--a box that’s vivid in color, bright with a greeting smile, and off-centered around sea-green eyes. Harry smiles when my box shows up. “Hey! Hope I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

I nearly utter out my response, but I pause to unmute my mic. “N-No. I just finished having lunch.”

Harry nods, then moves out to frame. Through a flicker of his hand, I can see him set a notebook down on his desk. He starts, a pencil in hand, and reads out from his notebook, “Uh, we left off talking about, um, the purpose of the text. Ideas, like compassion and caregiving.”

I nod. For another fifteen minutes before lunch, I reviewed the text again and jotted down some more notes. “Yeah. Um, well, there’s the obvious techniques, she uses, and I think that maybe…”

I go on, off about my notes. It’s a patient and biding thing--touch and go, often at this beginning part of a partner project, where I offer everything and more of it in the future, and leave the decision freely. Here I sit, That One Girl, and in my blabbering, Harry Styles sits with the option to  _ leave me to it _ , or to  _ suffer with me _ . Touchy thing is, this virtual setting is pretty different; will he utter his choice and end the call? Wait through 35 minutes of me and leave me in this black grid of embarrassment? Block my number, and email the teacher for Tessa Young?

Halfway through this talk, the thoughts invade me:  _ am I talking too long? Am I rambling? Is he copying this down to send to his friends? What if Murph can hear me through the walls and she’ll make fun of me?  _ And then I stutter on the last words, a reddening stumble, another trip to laugh at in the hallways: “I--uh--and, y-yeah. That’s what I have.”

Thankfully, or perhaps not as fortunate, Harry responds fast. “I-I’m impressed. You’re really prepared.”  _ Maybe I should leave it to you.  _ Those are the lines. “I like that one you too note of--about it being some sort of satire or ironic story. I got that kinda message too.” 

I nod. But it comes through with silence. And then, unmuting my mic, “Y-yeah. I’d like to hear your notes, if you got any.”

_ Got  _ _ any _ _? What the hell?  _ I bite back a curse. I must be coming off snobby. But he says, “Yeah, sure. Well, I noticed those things you did, and I also…”

Harry goes on, about the same notes as me, but his small little interjections of-- _ but also the author says she wears this color sweater,  _ and  _ i noticed the author says this about the weather _ , and more. Small little trinkets on the path, all that I normally deem as, simply,  _ little _ . And then, with these little sidenotes--and a small scratch of his temple with the eraser-end of his pencil--he goes into the meanings. For every small hyper-focused note in the margin, Harry makes a multitude of interpretations;  _ maybe for this _ or  _ maybe for that _ .  _ What about this?  _ And  _ what about that? _ “...and, yeah. That’s all I got.”

_ Hm _ . I’m half thankful for my Video turned off; on one hand Harry can’t estimate my silence, and on the other he’ll feel discouraged. And again, I rush for a response. “I-I think that’s good. We can definitely, maybe, work all this together.”

He nods. Behind the wall, Murph stomps to her room with her Youtube on high volume. And I try again, scratching my heads to recall his notes and to coincide them with mine.  _ We have the same gist,  _ I say. And then I add,  _ I think.  _ And I go on, saying how those little details he noticed work into the major devices I highlighted, and he adds in, again about the various interpretations ( _ but it could be like this,  _ he says,  _ or that _ ).

I never really thought much of Harry; or rather, I never really allowed myself to. I mean, a popular guy like him is in a million thoughts of hundreds of fawning girls; and despite Danny’s unbothered manner in befriending such fawning girls, I made a certain pact in avoiding the crowd. But fawning girls aside, what I’m saying is that I have never paid much attention to Harry, and therefore I doubt he’s paid any to me. That being said, I cede that this is the moment he realizes who I really am. Stubborn to her notes, shielding her thoughts, a different mind. 

So I lose the touchy manner. An unforgiving imbalance, and I swear I can see that blink where he realizes how I am. I’ve recognized it, over and over, in uncomfortable classrooms, more-than-comfy seats and desks, and edging cafeteria tables in the background. There comes a thump on the wall from Murph’s room, and in the back of my mind it’s,  _ oh, she’s back at it again, doing those TikTok dances again _ . So the words keep flowing out, amidst my doubts ( _ you’re downing him out,  _ and  _ you’re driving him away _ , and  _ that’s the point, he was bound to find out anyway _ ), until--”Is that really how you think?”

Nearly ashamed, I close my mouth. And open, again, loudly and shocked, I utter, “What?”

Immediately: “N-No, I’m sorry,” he chuckles, rubbing his neck. He runs a hand through his hair. “I-I didn’t mean to sound rude. It’s just, you have a particular way of thinking. Not bad, just, unique.” 

_ Different _ is the word he’s searching for. “It’s...okay. I don’t really--It’s just, it’s easier to think in...variables.” I shrug. It’s not like anyone’s asked me that before. “Like, factors that work together to make up something. It doesn’t really make space for wide interpretations.”

He pauses. Maybe there’s lag. “Hm. Like an equation.”

“Y-yeah.”

And here’s the testing moment--an acceptance. One of giving up on me, or on finding the will to push on. And again, I’ve never thought much of Harry, and I expect much less from him. No small hope, never allowed. What makes him different from any other student I’ve been paired with, who’s realized the same thing, averted their eyes in their same ways, and decided on their same terms? Why would I expect more from him than a Tessa Young, or Rebecca Lee, or anyone else who’s spared less than a blurred second behind my back? It’s these questions that whiz by in my, different,  _ different  _ mind, leaving me cast aside with an empty gaze, until I see that look--a purse of his lips, tilt of his head, and bright eyes as he breaks into another small smile. “Interesting. Well, it’s been well over an hour, and I wouldn’t want to keep you from your own things.”

“Y-yeah, I...kinda do.” I have half a mind to protest.  _ No, it’s fine, I can stay, and talk with you.  _ He nods, leaning off the side of his camera, perhaps to put his notebook away. “I guess we can meet at the same time, and--” I pause, and he pauses, and I try to shake myself on track. As he leaned aside, I spotted over his shoulder, propped against the wall, a sea-green painted turntable, sitting on top of a shelf lined with records and vinyls. “--sorry. I just noticed the--behind you, the turntable.”

“Oh,” he laughs, gazing back at said turntable shelf. “Yeah. You’re into vinyls?”

“Y-yeah.” A small smile. “My mom has a bunch in the attic.” He chuckles. “I never really thought of--I didn’t really expect you to be into vinyls.”

And his smile grows, humming in agreement. “Well, I’ve learned that nobody likes a dude with a record collection and not a spotify playlist.” I laugh. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

“Bye.” We both leave the meeting, I close my laptop, and with it, my strained eyes. Sitting in this chair for nearly an hour and a half, talking to  _ the  _ Harry Styles, and facing the usual tension with partner projects; surely enough to tire one for the day. 

Another thumb on the wall. “Murph!”

  
  


**

English passes by as our teacher last described it--another lesson, and no meeting with our partners. The lesson, however, as unplanned and unorganized as ever; lagging internet in the teacher’s impromptu bedroom-classroom, kids shouting in the background, and the teacher’s equally unorganized computer desktop while he searched for his powerpoint file. Not much to write notes on, for once, and the class ends in an underwhelming, frustrated (on Teacher’s end) goodbye.

It’s what happens next period that matters. Propped up against my desk once more, earbuds in for another hour, and listening to another teacher drone on into another notebook; a recipe for tired eyes and loud sighs. And then, in the middle of waiting for Teacher 2 to switch onto the next slide, my phone buzzes.  _ Danny,  _ I presume. But the notification shines, and I read, and read again,  _ Harry Styles. _

_ Oh. Hm.  _ Teacher 2 switches slides, but I don’t notice. I open the message. It reads: 

_ Hey, i know we’re supposed to be in class but after our talk i looked back on my notes to revise and fit into yours better. i won’t hold it to you to read it while you’re busy, but whenever you have the time… _

_ Holy crap. He’s actually...interested in this.  _ And then, “Please make an effort to write down anything highlighted here, or you can make a copy of these slides, because these will be tested on at the end of the unit.”

Hurriedly, I set down my phone and dart my eyes to the screen, scribbling down whatever highlighted notes I could remember before Teacher 2 switches to the next slide. 

And class proceeds, another teacher with his slides and notes and occasional buffer in audio. But, periodically, my eyes dart to my phone and its idle silence, imagining the bright lock screen, and then the home page, and then--a distraction I struggle to resist--that text. It’s like that, through this class and the next, and by 12:30, I’m an impatient, finger-tapping, knee-bouncing mess hunched over the  _ Leave Meeting  _ button. And then, finally, Teacher 3 departs with a  _ remember to turn in your-- _

_ Left Meeting.  _ The clock strikes 12:30, and all the intensity subsides inside. Although my eyes cut to my phone, it takes a will and a reminder to slow me down, opening my phone with newfound patience. Who was I to get excited over some guy’s text? What would the neighbors on their front lawn--a perfect, clear-shot view into my window (a privacy hazard, I know, but blame that on neighborhood planning)--or Murph, walking past my room, think of a girl like me rushing to a guy like Harry’s text?  _ It’s just for a project,  _ I can tell myself.  _ But it’s about the principle _ . 

So, slow. As if it were a punishment, I pause to scroll through my notifications. (Of course, nothing there. What can I expect?) And then, in a snap turn, I open his text. I skim through the first lines and click on a link to a document--all of his ideas splurged onto a white screen. All that talk of  _ it could mean this  _ or  _ could signify that _ is either scrapped or harshed down, the only remnant of his talk last night a few misplaced periods or commas in empty space. 

First, though, I must explain my shock. Or, more specifically, my confusion. I’ve said it before; I’m not really a  _ partners  _ type. Not one to socially interact (Not like Tessa Young, which is unfortunate for others). And I’ve talked about this rhythm, one where partnership begins--hesitance and disappointment--and when partnership discontinues-- _ yeah, Y/N, i think you can handle the rest. And then, uhh, we can meet before school to talk over who presents what.  _

And perhaps it’s this virtual classroom, this behind-the-screen act, that allows a boy like Harry Styles to want to work on an English project with me.  _ Or maybe it’s just him.  _

_ Maybe it’s you _ . No matter that. I finish reading his notes, just as Mom downstairs calls me for lunch. 

  
  


**

  
  


_ Hey. I don’t know if you’re busy, but if you’re not, we can meet again today. _

_ Sent two seconds ago.  _ And in that short span of time, I already regret it. But regret is temporary. I hear a  _ ding! _ and I read: 

_ Sure. I’ll open the meeting rn.  _

And then, after a minute:  _ Go ahead and join.  _

I take a second to double check my space--my hair, my reading glasses, my notebook, my laptop and its tabs. Then, hands automatic, I press  _ Join Meeting. _ The loading screen goes. I appear in my box, Harry in his, and I can see his surprise at my lack of black box. “Hey, Y/N.”

I nearly shy under his gaze; another thing different from school--appearance is optional. And this time, I chose  _ yes.  _ So, trying a smile, I pick up my notebook, and say, “So, I--”

“Did you--”

“--Oh, sorry, I--” I splutter.  _ Of course when my camera is on.  _ “You go.”

“No, I was just--you go.” He laughs. 

So I do as well. “Well, I, um, I read your notes.” I can feel his eyes on me,  _ but he always has where else could he look before _ , but the knowledge is heavy and piercing. Too green, too blue; a swirl of charisma and chuckles and  _ oh, what am I doing?  _ I can’t allow myself to look, so I bolden my gaze on the notebook, its rectangular shape blocking half of my camera. “A-and I took some time to...well, I-I think I shared it with you, but I found some ways to put yours with mine and fit my notes around yours better.”

And his smile picks itself back up again. “Funny--that’s what I did with mine to share with you.” I remind myself to smile. “Yeah, I saw that doc, I was gonna ask if you meant for me to read it.”

“We can just, read it now and you can tell me what you think,” I offer, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. Harry nods, voicing his agreement, and we agree on five minutes to re-read our notes, now in closer context. 

Then, he says, “Well, I think this is airtight. All we have to do is rewrite it into the outline, right?”

I nod. And, much smoother than before, we begin our project. Harry shares a doc with me, we both jump on it, and after I say  _ I can probably handle doing this part and this part since most of my notes can answer that _ , he says  _ yeah and I can do this and this with my notes too _ . The clock starts, us minimizing our  _ Zoom _ window to focus on the blaring light of our computer screens as we work. I barely interrupt to offer my suggestions and changes, as does he, and in my small moments of pondering, I can see his cursor below me--him typing his lines out, then going back, then readjusting. 

Although I bite back, refusing myself the free will to look, my eyes wander temptingly, and I find Harry in all parts of his thought: that small push of his lips when he gains an idea, the clench of his jaw when his typing slows, and the shift of his eyes elsewhere when the thinking ensues. I tell myself I refuse it, I don’t allow it, but my hands don’t move, and my cursor doesn’t click  _ Minimize window. _

_ Get a grip, Y/N _ , I tell myself. In between typing, I question this sudden birth of  _ feeling _ , something titled  _ Unallowed  _ for years after teases and rumors and refusals. Maybe it’s just this virtual environment, the false sense of comfort in my own room, and the familiar sense of vulnerability behind that closed door. Maybe it’s this screen, singled out in a dark, closed room, only with  _ him _ , welcomed by  _ him _ , allowed by  _ him _ . But, whatever it is, I decide, I’ve cowered for much more.  _ He’s just a boy. You know how they are.  _

Eventually, our typing slows down, and Harry, I can see, leans back in his seat with a sigh. He regains his smile from his taut, focused clench of his jaw, and I allow myself a break. Only then, after pounding ear-blocking one and a half hours of typing and inner-conflict, I notice the sounds in the background--a vinyl turning, an orchestra humming, a band composing. And somehow, Harry notices as well. “You know the song?”

“Y-yeah,” I nod, surely shocked. “ CYKL , right? The song  _ Saturn in Love _ ?”

He grins. “Yeah. I got their record a few years ago, on sale for $20.” 

“Oh, lucky,” I smile. The song plays, reaching its bridge--an instrumental part, where the lone violin takes place amidst its counterparts (the orchestra) and its companions (the drums, the brass, the band). Somehow,  CYKL (pronounced “cycle”) mixes in their electric, their bass line, their airy vocals; and it all swirls together like warm chocolate in a bowl of cookie dough (cohesive, irreplaceable, and promising). And when the part is over, I find that Harry also waited for that part in perfect silence, a pleasant smile on his face, and it’s so similar that I’m led to admit, “I like that part.”

“Me too,” he chuckles, gaining a toothy grin. “Which song do you like from them better,  _ Saturn in Love  _ or  _ Cupid Rings _ ?”

He poses it as if it were a tough question. But my answer is instinctive, too  _ me _ , and it slips out: “Oh, no, definitely  _ Saturn in Love _ . No competition between them.” And he laughs, as if shocked. I nearly bite back the rest of my words, but his smile yearns for more. “ _ Saturn in Love  _ is the perfect symphony, no denying it.”

He raises his eyebrows, an amused twist of his face. Probably searching for some opposition. “Really,  _ the  _ perfect symphony?”

“Y-yeah, it has everything that makes a song  _ perfect _ ,” I smile, even though I will myself not to. The discussion pauses as the vinyl finishes, and Harry has to turn it over. “I mean, the chords, the instruments, the progression, and the singers--it’s like they knew the perfect variables and factors to make it.” Harry’s silence lasts too long. “What?”

And he shrugs. “Nothing, I--it reminds me of your notes. Like equations.” I respond nothing. And he says, “Your friend, Danny, she works at the diner right? Across the street from the school?”

It’s less surprising that anyone knows Danny--her dad owns the diner, which, before quarantine closed their place down to takeout orders, used to be filled to the brim on Fridays for her and her mother’s popularly requested pies (that status followed her to school, with uncreative students seeking to pre-order such pies for gifts, dinners, parent anniversaries)--but moreso surprising that anyone would connect the dots between her and me. Sure, we hung out a lot, but I considered myself more of a ghosting shadow in her much-more-popular-but-not-the-most-popular presence. I nod. “Y-yeah. We’re kindergarten friends.”

And he nods along, as if he knows this. He likely doesn’t. “Childhood friends--that’s something I’d wish for.”

Maybe I should offer some pity. “Well, I-I mean, it’s not like it’s anything now.” I shrug. “We can’t even hang out together anymore, right?”

“That is true,” Harry nods. It does very little to offer comfort, but it’s truth. “I miss my bandmates too.”

Oh, of course. Maybe in this context, I’ve forgotten he’s  _ the  _ Harry Styles, who’s in  _ that  _ band, and who’s the heartthrob of the town. Through this camera, and those bright eyes, and upkept hair; he’s just another boy, if charming. I’ve heard on  _ Two Direction _ ’s profile that they’re attempting to take their music more on the internet (before that, they were building their platform through live performances--at the diner,  _ Open Mic _ s, school performances), but still, performing to only a camera is less comparable to singing with one’s own band. I solemnly nod. “Yeah, must be hard.” 

The song ends, and  CYKL ’s next song plays. There, on that note, I decide to end. Harry says his goodbye, I repeat mine, and the meeting closes. 

  
  


**

To my surprise, my phone rings after dinner. And, doubling that, I find that it’s Danny calling. Immediately, I answer the facetime, and Danny sits at her desk, still in uniform. “Danny!”

“Y/N! Ugh, work sucked!” She takes off her gloves and apron, throwing them aside, and pulls her hair bun undone. After rubbing her tired eyes, she tries a smile. “So, what’s up with you?”

“Well, nothing much,” I laugh. “How’s the diner, though? Can’t imagine what kinda business you get now.”

And Danny rolls her eyes. "Ever since we’ve started doing mobile orders and takeout, it’s just pie after pie. We even ran out of pie today--gotta start preparing larger batches now.” Although I laugh along, her own amusement dies down. And I follow, matching the graveness of her eyes. “But I overhear my parents talking--we might have to close the diner down.”

I cover my mouth, masking a gasp. So sad that it’s led up to this--having to close down the family business. Although (hopefully) temporarily, there have been drastic times when even business at the diner wasn’t enough; no, not enough for Danny’s savings and her plan for an apartment somewhere far away. We had a pact together--as fast as possible, after graduation, we’d leave together and move somewhere nice. Last year, we went over how much together we’d saved up: barely enough. 

“Danny, that’s horrible.” Moving out was something I was  _ ok _ with. But for Danny, it was a new chapter. “W-well, maybe something can come out of it. I mean, you’d have more time.”  _ More time for what? School? _

I can see my thoughts match hers, a lost dread knotted between her eyebrows. And she says, after long moments of picking with the hem of her sleeve, “I think my mom wants to go back home. To our grandparents, you know--with the stay at home, and quarantine, and, well, Grannie had just lost her nurse because his family tested positive;” she scratches at her temple. “I keep telling her it’s best to stay here, but she’s so adamant--she wants to take care of them.  _ No one will care for them properly _ . But I know the real reason why, and it’s--God, she’s telling Dad about,  _ what if this’ll be the last time we get to see them? _ ”

I just wish I could break through this screen, reach through, and take her in my arms. A big, warm hug; tight to its ends, and long enough to rest into. Danny takes her phone as she climbs into her bed, layering her five thin blankets atop her, and sets up her laptop beside her. 

Coupled with my emotional comfort, I help Danny with her English homework. And Math (which, I don’t really understand). I offer pointers on her essay--very minimal, if I’m honest; she was always the English whiz. And, every half hour or so, I beg her to take a break, and we hop on Youtube, watching  _ slime videos  _ and  _ dog hair cuts  _ and  _ stop-motion cooking _ . 

“Oh, speaking of English,” Danny says, the typing on her keyboard ceasing. I look up from my notebook. “Harry Styles? Got any updates on that?” I stutter in my words. “Or did he ghost you? Oh--if he did, I’ll--seriously, I’ll do something, like--”

“No, he didn’t ghost me,” I reassure quickly. And then, snorting, “What were you gonna do if he did? Call his number and yell at him?” She eagerly nods. “Well, shockingly, he’s actually working with me.”

I tell her about the after-school Zoom meetings, the texts, the vinyls,  CYKL . And as I continue, the  _ ooh _ s and  _ what _ s and  _ oh my god _ s progress, gaining amusement and joy along the way. And, ending with the report of today, she says, “I gotta say, I’m proud of you--I mean, you normally can’t stand more than an hour of socializing.”

And that’s all I allow to be said on the topic, with the shrug and statement, “Come on, let’s get back to your homework.”

The news of Harry Styles, I thought as I continued onto the next page of my notebook where I skimmed the notes, was something I intended to tread around as lightly as possible--not while Danny had an entire family to worry about. Especially not. Even so, I thought as I paused in the midst of reiterating notes, Harry was not  _ something  _ to bother talking about. Gossiping about. Spending more than the time allotted over him. 

_ He’s just a boy _ ; that’s what I say I’ve gathered from these last two days. So, what is it that makes him special to the world-- _ his band?  _ I quietly scoff. But my mind whirls-- _ sea-green eyes, dimples on cheeks, wide grin _ \--and, quickly, I reel myself back to my desk, sitting before it, and staring at my notebook. 

My phone rings, a brief banner notification crossing the screen with the name  _ Someone sent you a friend request! _ On my laptop, I check instagram, and find, yes indeed, a friend request. Something fresher and newer amongst  _ Tessa Young, Robbie Watts, Rebecca Lee, Trayden Gon… _

_ Harry Styles.  _

  
  


**

  
  


Another typical workday. It seems to be a silent consensus that we’d continue to meet after school, and so with the short texts of  _ wanna meet?  _ and  _ sure _ , we were back in our grid-like boxes, stationed next to each other in an empty abyss. Harry unmutes first. Then, a spoken, yet short, consensus; we open our shared document and continue the work from yesterday. 

Although Harry looks to be in his own zone, primarily focused on the document--subconsciously in his routine of curving lips, short tilts of his head, wandering eyes, and flashing, small grins--I find myself  _ stuck _ . Stuck between this project, his camera, that notification on my phone (the daring, the less-than-intended  _ Harry Styles sent you a friend request! Allow or Deny? _ ), and  _ oh god _ , I notice in this turmoil, the familiar tune of  _ Again Girl _ by  CYKL . The vinyl is turning behind him, and he does nothing but slowly tap his pencil to the beat. 

And, another familiarity of the day, we both clock out an hour and a half later. We share the same tired, exhausted sigh, and Harry rises from his seat to change the vinyl out. It must be another artist to hum to, as he returns to his desk with hums and head-nods to the music. And then, he says, before the silence, “So, I’d hate to be pushy, but...you haven’t answered my friend request.”

I freeze up. “I--uhm,” I try to weed out excuses from left and right. But I meet his smiling eyes, coupled with a humoured grin. “Well, I just found it weird a guy like you would want to friend-request me.”

And he laughs. “A guy like me?” I nod. “Well, what’s wrong with a friend request from me?”

He keeps his smile. And I can’t keep back those horrible feelings, these prodding thoughts; if this is amusement he likes, why else would he keep me around? And so I shake my head. “Why are you still talking to me? I don’t get it.”

And the humour falters. “Get what?”

I almost look at him, confused and twisted, as if he were crazy. “Harry, I’m not like other girls,” I begin, and he laughs. “What? I’m not like Tessa, who's on the cheerleader team and has a boyfriend with a motorbike.” His laughs cut short to silent gaze, one that is so awfully provoking. “I-I’m not like any of the normal girls with a social life. I’m different.”

_ I’m different.  _ Oh, how often I’ve told myself that, everyday, after cast-aside gazes and hesitant responses. And how often I’ve repeated it, over and over, more frequently in the presence of this boy.  _ He doesn’t deserve to do this to you. He doesn’t. He’s just him _ . 

And so Harry says, dauntingly, and it’s an unwanted question: “Why do you have to be different?”

And then, after a brief pause, he follows, “I misworded that. Why do you  _ think  _ you have to be different?”

“I don’t  _ think  _ I have to be. I just know I am.”

And he puts on that face again--never serious, just responding, and this one carries the same tone as  _ it reminds me of your notes. like equations _ . And I haven’t the slightest idea of what to attribute it to; something along the lines of pity? Of indifference? Intolerance?  _ Surrender? _ And then he says, with a shrug, “Well, I don’t care. It’s not like I can just stop talking to you. We’re working together.”

“Yeah, well, you could’ve just left me to do all the work alone,” I respond, bitter. 

And then, another face. Still serene, still calm, but different. “Is that what most people do?”

I try to think of what he’s trying to do. Amuse me, pity me, change me? An innocent facade, behind vinyls and song lyrics and laughs.  _ Is that what most people do? _ They do, when I allow them to. “Yeah.”

He brings his smile back. “Well, then, I’m not like other people. I’m different.”

I have nothing to say to that. It almost brings me to a smile. But I refuse, again. And then, after a yawn and a stretch of his arms, Harry says, almost refreshed, “Okay, come on. Let’s hang out.”

“What?” The confusion grows. “Harry, we’re in a pandemic. It’s not like we can--”

“No, no, don’t worry,” He chuckles as he picks up a jacket from his bed. “I’ve got an idea.”

Through my phone, he directs me, after I’ve walked out the house with a coat on, towards the diner by the school.  _ But it’s closed,  _ I protest, and he says,  _ come on, Y/N, trust me.  _ When I reach the diner, I’m avidly looking around for him, seeing the same trees and streetlights in the background of his camera, but he continues to direct me past, across the street, and down to the beach. 

“Harry, the beach is closed,” I say, worried, the pale sand appearing just a horizon away.

“We’re not going on the beach.”

He keeps this tone, all light and amused, and while I feel the need to play along, the silence of me wallows in this amusement, near-mockery about me. Then, as I’m crossing the street to the sidewalk and fencepost surrounding the beach, Harry directs me to stop. I hear his voice echo, and--ten feet to the left of me, Harry waves. Even with a mask, I can see his grin form. 

I wave back. And he says, laugh bubbling, “Look! We’re hanging out. All safe and distanced.”

I roll my eyes. “How smart.”

And then, Harry points across from us, to the sun in the clouds.  _ What timing _ , I murmur, as the sun lowers itself beneath the ocean line. And then, as if counting it, Harry says (once the sun is gone and the sky bleeds a bit of blue), “Okay! Time to go back!”

A laugh escapes out of me. “What was the point of all that?”

And, in my peripheral, I see him shrug. But, down on my phone screen, I can see, in much deeper clarity, the smile of his eyes. “Well, yesterday, you told me about how you miss your friend Danny,” he says. “I thought we could, I dunno, go here together.”

And, again, I find nothing to say. I can feel the anger flare in myself--letting  _ a boy like him _ get me to laugh, get me to leave and walk out, get me to lose words. I don’t know who to blame. But through this anger, I bite my lips, and try, “Thank you.”

Just as I did for Danny, Harry sees me home from a fifteen-feet distance. As I unlock the door, push it open to a bewildered Murph, she sees me look back and wave goodbye at Harry Styles, as he turns for home. My sister gasps, and, behind the closed door, punches me in the side. “Y/N! You went on a walk with Harry Styles?!”

Mom and Dad overhear in the livingroom. Mom asks, rising from her seat, “A walk?”

And Dad, behind her, “Harry Styles?”

“W-we were practicing social distance, don’t worry,” I assure. But the glint in their eyes is less concerning and more enthusiastic. 

Murph screams and Mom, with proud arms, envelopes me in a tight hug. “Y/N walked with a boy! She walked with Harry Styles!”

“Mom!” Murph edges, jealous and rotten. 

  
  


After dinner, Mom beckons me over for another family, late-night movie marathon binge. It’s  _ Twilight Day _ ; every few days there’s a channel that plays the entire  _ Twilight _ series, a 10 hr marathon that, by hour 3, Murph falls asleep to, and Mom and Dad decide to pack up for the night. They never make it to Eclipse. I turn the offer down, wanting to retire to my bedroom.

Upstairs, I fall into my bedsheets with a heavy sigh. Exhaustion from I can’t figure out what--but it creeps in, a cold matching the outside weather, that overtakes my shoulders and limbs altogether. In my mind, I’m restless; but everywhere else, I’m relenting. My cheeks ache, and I find that I’ve pulled my mouth taut, in a strict and abiding intolerance. 

Although my thoughts buzz, I can’t seem to find those that remind me.  _ Harry is not good. Look how he laughs. Look how he smiles.  _ Where is it? Where, amongst  _ he took me out because he knew I was feeling hurt _ .  _ He said he’s not different--not like them. He chose to keep talking. He saw me home.  _

Further, I bury myself into my sheets, until I feel a  _ buzz _ in my coat pocket. I fish out my phone, eager for Danny’s solace. But it’s Murph’s text, saying,  _ i can’t believe you went on a walk with Harry without even telling me… _

I scroll past that text, and find Harry’s contact.  _ I’m not like other people. I’m different. _ Only now, in reflection, I can find no mockery in his tone. No amusement. Just effort. 

I open instagram. The Friend Request. And, despite all the buzz, I click  _ Accept _ . 

[part 2 hopefully soon, 

had to split this in two bc i realized i can’t write a whole fanfic in 1 month]

  
  
  
  
  



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